You Speak Of Treason
by Retro Reader
Summary: Aramis falls in love with the King's niece and Athos keeps disappearing to meet an elusive stranger, whilst someone at court is determined to bring about the downfall of Queen Anne… and they're not afraid to get blood on their hands to do so. MY FIRST MUSKETEERS FANFIC! PLEASE FEEL FREE TO WRITE A REVIEW!
1. Chapter 1

"Let me introduce my niece, Lady Florence Durand!" The King announced to the mass of advisors, councillors and chancellors in the grand hall of Versailles. "She is here to look after my little prince as my excellent advisors think be unfit to do so myself." The so-called excellent advisors shuffled uncomfortably in their seats. "I'm sure you'll all treat her wonderfully."

Lady Florence Durand smiled graciously at the King, who returned the smile with a fond grasp of her hand. She was then led out of the room by a small group of immaculately dressed ladies-in-waiting, and followed them through a huge, intricately carved door. The King then resumed his meeting with his chancellors in the centre of the room. A deep silence blanketed the hall and the only voice heard was that of King Louis. From what D'Artagnan could hear- which wasn't much, as he had been placed in the further corner of the room away from the meeting out of sight- it seemed that there was someone in the palace intent on sabotaging the King's new plans- so secret barely anyone knew what these plans entailed, except the King and his most trusted advisors.

With D'Artagnan, standing guard in the hall, were three other musketeers of the King's army.

"Quite a pretty one, isn't she?" Porthos said.

D'Artagnan nodded in agreement, then nudged Porthos and nodded over to Aramis, who still had his mouth agape and was staring at the now-closed door.

Porthos winked at D'Artagnan and said slightly louder; 'Aramis!"

Aramis jumped and looked extremely taken aback. His head shot round to his two friends.

"What? Oh, her? Well… I guess. I hadn't really-"

Porthos gave Aramis a slight punch on the shoulder. "Sure! Of course you didn't!"

Suddenly Athos shushed his three friends. "If you're any louder the King will surely hear. And how would you like that?"

They fell silent. But it wasn't long until Porthos quietly murmured to Aramis:

"You like her, don't you?"

"No! Of course not!"

But Porthos could always see through his friend's lies. To him, Aramis was an open book. An open book with very large writing.

Aramis sighed. As soon as she had entered the room, Aramis had gazed in wonder at Lady Florence. She had long, dark hair wound exquisitely round her head and soft eyes. She walked with such grace that Aramis could only describe her as an angel on God's earth. He sighed again and looked up at the painted ceiling, a holy fresco depicting heaven with ringing bells and cherubs. She had barely looked his way when she walked past. Of Aramis' existence, she was quite unaware.

"Look, Porthos! He's dreaming about his true love! What number are you on now? Your third, or is she your twenty-third true love?" D'Artagnan whispered loudly. Porthos responded with a whoop of laughter, which echoed around the grand hall, bouncing off every decorated mirror and wall. Silence fell in the room, and all eyes turned to the King's musketeers. A large grandfather clock ticked away in silence before King Louis turned to the sheepish musketeers and said coldly;

"Do tell us what's so funny. We all enjoy a good joke."

* * *

The Musketeers had just returned from a disastrous defeat in battle by the Spanish. On the journey home, nobody spoke. Athos rode with his head bowed, a dull grimace clouded his face. Drizzle dripped off of the soldier's misshapen hats and splashed on the ripped saddles of their horses. After a while, Athos said, his voice dull and flat; "We lost a lot of good men today. We shouldn't have."

They rode on in silence. From somewhere behind then thunder rumbled and lightning spat across the sky.

"Bloody weather," Athos mumbled. "Bloody, bloody weather."

Upon their return to the palace, Athos slunk dismally into some dark passage, leaving the others to return their horses to the stables. Porthos and D'Artagnan had just left to tend to their war-weary horses, so Aramis resolved to follow Athos. As he quickly and quietly entered the passage, he collided with a figure travelling the opposite way.

"Hey! Watch where you're- Oh!"

The figure was Lady Florence, who looked just as shocked as Aramis felt. Even in the dimly-lit passageway, she looked as beautiful up close as she had on the first day Aramis saw her in the great hall. He had sneaked away many times to catch a sight of her in the palace gardens, walking with her ladies-in-waiting or playing with the Dauphin. _His_ Dauphin. He had never spoken to her, in all the weeks she had been at court. And now, the first thing he said to her had been short and rude. He would have kicked himself had he not been so out of his depth, finally faced with the King's beautiful niece.

"I- I'm terribly sorry, my lady. I- I didn't expect-"

She smiled. " It is I who should be apologising, Monsieur…?"

"Oh… Aramis," he said "Just Aramis."

"Well," Florence said. " _Aramis,_ if you are looking for your friend, he passed me down this passage not too long ago."

Aramis thanked her and started to walk further down the passage, grateful that the light was dim enough to mask the blush slowly rising in his cheeks. He could hear her footsteps echoing down on the cold, stone slabs. He quickly turned around and called; "What are you doing down here, my lady-"

But she was gone.

* * *

A few weeks later, Aramis, Athos and Porthos were sat in the courtyard. Porthos was sat on a bench behind Aramis and Athos who were busy cleaning their pistols. It was a quiet day- there was nothing to be done and Porthos was getting a sense of anti-climax after their recent exploits. It was a sunny day, but the air was stuffy and damp, heavy to breathe in. Porthos began to tap his feet in irritation.

"If you're bored, Porthos, why don't you get us some water?" Athos said in his signature slow drawl, without looking behind him.

Porthos leapt off the bench, and pulled a face behind Athos. Aramis grinned. He then watched his brother-in-arms tramp off behind the stables to salvage some water from somewhere.

Athos looked up at a balcony-which one Aramis couldn't tell- and then began to quickly put away his cleaning tools. Without looking at Aramis he muttered; "I'll be back soon', then hurried off in the direction of the palace. Athos furtively looked around him to check nobody was watching, then disappeared down the same passageway he had a few days before. Aramis watched after him, speechless. Porthos suddenly emerged from somewhere hauling two large buckets full to the brim of water with him. He dropped them on the ground, sloshing water all over the dry dust that lined the courtyard's cobbles, and said, exasperated;

"Where'd he go?"

Aramis turned at looked Porthos in the eye. "I think there's something Athos isn't telling us."


	2. Chapter 2

The hot Parisian summer had slowly melted into a stormy, temperamental autumn which clouded the city in deep, thick fogs every evening. Carriage rides proved troublesome for those travelling around the city at dusk, and villains and thieves held back around every corner, their sinful deeds covered by the mask of the night. Wars abroad had since ceased, causing unemployed soldiers to loiter the streets, begging or looking for employment. Even the Musketeers had little to do on those cold, rainy days. The Queen had discovered the existence of her husband's deep-rooted disease, the White Plague, but had gone to great lengths to disclose this fact from him. She hid her sorrow behind a screen of unchanging indifference, with false smiles and laughs that quickly faded when Louis had left the room. It was true that she felt grief; Louis was, after all, her husband, but now more so than ever Anne felt a deep protection for her son- the dauphin- and was determined to maintain her son's safety at all costs.

Meanwhile, Aramis had never been more in love. As the summer went on, he and Florence had met more and more often (mainly by an 'accidental' meeting concocted by Aramis at first). A chance walk in the palace gardens one day had revealed a hidden alcove in the garden wall, covered by a blanket of hanging flowers. Inside was a small stone bench, and light shafted in through a gap between the stone in the roof, giving enough light to see. It was in this alcove where the two would meet, in secret. They both knew the likely outcome if the King's niece and a musketeer were found in each other's company, even if they were only talking. The truth was, despite being a lady at the King's palace, Florence was lonely. She found a friend in the handsome musketeer Aramis, and as summer progressed their love grew with the roses that lined the garden walls.

* * *

Athos had continued his discreet meetings with an elusive person whose identity remained a mystery throughout the summer. Athos' secret meetings became more frequent, as did Aramis'. And their lacking presence did not go unnoticed by their brothers-in-arms.

"They're both off, again, aren't they?" Porthos said upon entering the Musketeer's base, completely soaked from a sudden downpour, which had caught him off-guard. He removed his sodden jacket and hung it up by the door. He then sat down by the steadily blazing fire and kicked off his boots.

"Oh, yes," D'Artagnan said, pouring Porthos and himself a drink. 'Aramis has gone to meet his ladylove again whilst Athos… well, we can only guess where our captain has got to. Perhaps he has found himself a girl as well."

Porthos grasped his hands gratefully around the drink and shook his head. 'Nah. I reckon something is going on… something Athos doesn't want us to know. Knowing him, it could be anything."

D'Artagnan grinned. "Imminent war, perhaps? Scandalous secrets within the palace that god forbid we made public?"

Porthos' grin was quickly replaced by a grave face. " There's already one of those, you know."

They both knew what he meant. The parentage of the dauphin. The future king of France was illegitimate.

"And don't we know it. Still, do you remember when the King told the court about that saboteur intent on ruining him? You don't think Athos…"

Porthos sunk lower in his seat and watched the dying embers of the fire wither away. Suddenly he didn't feel like speaking anymore.

* * *

Early the next morning, Lady Florence made her way to the dauphin's chambers to wake him and give him his lessons. She found him cuddled up in his expanse of bed, snuggled within a lavish quilt of gold. How fond she was of this child! And the future king of France, no less.

"Come along, Louis, it is time to wake up." She said softly.

But the dauphin was far too tired to listen. Instead, he slept on peacefully. Florence smiled and looked out of the large window beside the dauphin's bed onto the endless emerald green of the gardens below. She watched as the rare autumn sun shone down on an ornate water fountain which trickled a stream of clear water down into a glittering pool beneath it. Then a familiar figure came into view. She saw Aramis striding along the path beneath the window. After fumbling quickly with the window to open it, she called (softly, so she wouldn't wake anyone up at this early hour) to him. His face lit up and he darted off into the palace. A moment later there was a slight knock on the dauphin's door. Aramis entered. Florence rushed to him and kissed him gently. Aramis held her in his arms and caressed her face. "Good morning," he said.

"Be quiet, or the guard will hear you!" Florence whispered, but she was laughing. Aramis glanced over her shoulder, and his gaze stopped on the sleeping Dauphin.

"The young king." He said. There was something in his voice that Florence couldn't put her finger on. What was it? Wistfulness? Longing?

"Yes," Florence took the musketeer by the hand and led him to the sleeping prince. She linked her arm with his and rested her head on his shoulder.

"Isn't he precious?"

Aramis' face was somewhere between a frown and a smile. He didn't take his eyes off the child as he said; '…yes"

Florence looked up at Aramis' sorrowful eyes and took his face in her hands.

"Is there something the matter, my darling?"

He took her by the shoulders and turned her to face Louis. Then he said, quietly.

"Does he not look like anyone you know?"

Florence hesitated for a moment. "Well… of course he looks like the Queen- he has her eyes. But… well, for a moment… he could look like you."

Florence turned away from the silently sleeping boy, and laughed softly.

"But I speak of treason."

She walked past Aramis and began to collect various books for the day's lessons. As she was reaching down to grab one, Aramis said, in almost a whisper;

"No. You do not."

Florence froze, the books she carried dropped to the floor, forgotten. The noise made the dauphin stir.

She turned slowly to face him.

"What do you mean?"

But Aramis' face said it all.

"The Queen… and you? The dauphin… is not the King's son?" Tear after tear began to stream down her face like the water fountain outside. Aramis, too, seemed overcome with emotion to string a proper sentence together. A deep sadness clouded his face, made his shoulders sag, making him almost unrecognisable to Florence.

She quickly composed herself, and began to quickly pick up the discarded books arrayed on the immaculately polished marble floor. She could see her reflection in it- how wretched she looked! She pushed past Aramis and said;

"Come along Louis. You must get up now." Her tone was so much harder than it had been before.

"Florence…" Aramis tried, but Florence didn't even look up. She wiped her face with her sleeve as she said "I think it best if you left, now, Aramis. If the guard found you in here…" Still she couldn't bring herself to look at him. Perhaps it was betrayal she felt. Perhaps it was jealousy. Or maybe it was a combination of both. Only when she heard the door quietly shut did she let herself be completely taken over by the emotions that had been rising in her. She found herself on the polished floor weeping, as her reflection stared back with tearful eyes.

* * *

Neither of them had noticed, whilst in the dauphin's bedchamber, that a fourth person was privy to that conversation. From inside the dauphin's wardrobe , Captain Marcheaux had witnessed the whole thing… and that was all he needed to know.


	3. Chapter 3

The Marquis de Feron had listened intently to the information brought to him by Marcheaux. In the dimly lit bedchamber, Marcheaux's voice, although spoken in a slight whisper, echoed and reflected off of the stone walls cracked with a century's worth of nefarious deeds. Shadows cast by flickering candlelight danced across the old walls, encompassing the dingy room with a rusty hue of orange, as if the dirty slums of Paris beneath the window were ablaze. After the defamatory truth of the dauphin's parentage was revealed to the Marquis, the room fell silent. Only the biting autumn wind could be heard whistling through the passageways of the palace like a sinister whisper in one's ear. After some time, (much longer than Marcheaux felt necessary) Feron grasped a wine cup with his rheumatic fingers and fell back in his straight-backed chair, exhausted by such a simple movement. He then said, in a strained, hoarse voice with his weary eyes shut:

"This information you have brought to me, Marcheaux…" He opened his eyes and fixed the man with his dark, piercing gaze.

"It is exactly what we need. This… this is the final pawn in our game, Marcheaux. With this…"

"The whole of Paris will fall to its knees, and this filthy palace with it." Marcheaux's tone was harsh, and aloof.

A small, vicious snigger emanated from Feron. "Indeed, Marcheaux. Indeed. Versailles will fall to its knees, just like every stinking peasant in this god-forsaken city."

"But when?" Marcheaux's face was half-hidden in the shadows but Feron saw an eager glint in the man's dead eyes. He held up his hand.

"Not yet. It is too soon. Leave it a while, Marcheaux. Timing is everything. You and I will be kings soon… if one can have a little patience."

* * *

"Fancy a little target practice, Aramis?" Porthos called from the courtyard up to the figure leaning on the balcony above. After receiving no reply, he tried again.

"Aramis! Fancy a little target practice?" He waved his recently polished sword around to try to get his friend's attention.

Aramis was leaning on the balcony overlooking the dusty courtyard. He was looking out to somewhere far in the distance, his eyes unmoving, unseeing. Recently, Porthos had sensed a feeling of melancholy that followed his friend around like a sagging weight on his shoulders. He had never seen Aramis like this, not for a long time. A lone pebble lay in the dust by Porthos' feet, and he nimbly flicked it upwards to Aramis in a last attempt to rouse him from this deep contemplation. It hit him, but Aramis didn't flinch. He hadn't even seemed to acknowledge its presence. This was the last straw for Porthos. He made his way up the steps to his friend and leant on the balcony next to him. He then gently hit Aramis on the back, making him jump.

"Girl trouble, Aramis?"

His comrade sighed a sigh that was so despairing that Porthos couldn't quite believe had come from his valiant, dashing friend. "Like you wouldn't believe." He said, humourlessly.

"Try me."

Aramis turned to face his friend, but still couldn't quite meet his eyes.

"I told her. Florence. About the dauphin."

"You did what? But we agreed-"

"I know, I know. But I couldn't stop myself. I _had to, Porthos._ I had to." He turned back to the courtyard, his eyes searching for something to distract himself with down below amongst the carriages and the clusters of men sword fighting. "I know its dangerous… but she's _trustworthy._ I'd stake my life on it."

"You may have to."

"Then so be it. But I couldn't let _us_ go on, without her knowing…" He stopped, a sob caught in his throat. " But now… now I just feel like… I've betrayed her."

"Who? Florence or Anne?"

Aramis said nothing.

Porthos clapped Aramis on the back. "You've had many fine messes in your life, brother, but none so fine as this one."

The father of the dauphin stood up and smiled, but it was a smile that didn't quite meet his dark eyes. "Don't I know it, brother."

Without speaking, Porthos threw his sword in the air, and caught it swiftly on the handle. He then pointed the blade at his friend's throat and Aramis hesitated for a moment, before quickly grabbing a nearby broom and deflecting the sword with it.

"You think you can defeat I, the mighty Porthos, with that feeble weapon, sire?" Porthos called in a loud, booming voice, before chuckling loudly.

It wasn't long before the two were engaged in a hair-raising fight, much to the delight of the nearby stable boys, but Aramis just couldn't get those two women out of his head.

* * *

Meanwhile, in a dimly lit passageway hidden deep within the castle, Athos stood with a hooded figure.

"But that would mean-"

"Yes. I know." Athos cut in. His voice was level but severe.

"Think, Athos! Think of the consequences! Think of the-"

"I have thought of the consequences, Treville."

"So, why-"

"Sacrifices must be made for the vanquishing of evil!"

"But what of the Queen's-"

"If she must be taken in the name of justice, then so be it!"

* * *

 ** _N.B Thank you to Troy08 who left me a review highlighting my mistake with naming the palace Versailles when it should be the Louvre… your review has not gone unnoticed! To make it easier to follow, however, I will keep referring to the palace as Versailles to avoid confusion. Thank you for picking up on that!_**


	4. Chapter 4

The punishment for treason was death. Every Parisian and Frenchman knew that. After prolonged torture in the dingy cells of the city's prison, the accused would be paraded through the streets of Paris to the jeering and shouts of the crowds, on a rickety cart, their company only that of a solemn priest. When they reached the city centre, thousands of people would gather to watch the criminal's dying moments. Ordinary people- mothers, soldiers, beggars and nobles alike came to delight in the spilling of crimson over the old cobbled streets of Paris. People who were usually so courteous, so quiet, raced to the gallows, baying for accused's blood like ravenous wolves. The audience would hold an apprehensive, collective breath as the convict was forced upon the raised platform, a macabre stage in the centre of the theatre of Paris. You could hear the ravens cry in the moments before the execution, a hungry wail slicing the silence of the crowd. And when the axe was dropped, the blood spilled, the justice delivered, the crowd would erupt into cheers and shouts. The ravens would watch closely, spying for the right moment to swoop down and feast on their fresh prey. The body would be dumped in an unmarked grave, over which grass would grow and children would play. Over time the people of Paris would be given another execution to quench their blood lust, and events would begin over again. It was a common occurrence in Paris.

That was not what Florence Durrand wanted for Aramis. He had wronged her, certainly, and committed the highest act of treason save for killing the king himself, but Florence knew that however much he had hurt her, she still loved Aramis and couldn't bear for any harm to come to him. She knew that Aramis had literally put his (and the Queen's) life in her hands by telling her his secret. Aramis had entrusted his whole future and reputation in Florence and she was adamant she would not let him down. She would tell no one of what Aramis told her on that day in the Dauphin's bedchamber. Being the King's niece, she had certain allegiances, and had to live by them… but her loyalty to Aramis outweighed her loyalty to the King. On coming to the palace, the last thing she had expected to do was to fall in love. Florence was the youngest of many, so her parents had focussed more on marrying off her siblings into wealth and power than they had on her. This had left Florence alone in the world, cast over for prettier, older sisters. The last thing she had ever expected was for anyone to fall in love with her, let alone the handsome, brave soldier who made her heart leapt every time she saw him.

Rain battered against her window, startling Florence from her deep contemplation. The night outside was an opaque purple, only a sliver of the evening sky visible and quickly dissolving against the unending mass. Shadows leapt around the courtyard under her window, blurred by the rain dripping down her window like translucent blood. There was a knock at her door.

"A letter for you, My Lady." The steward promptly handed her an envelope and vanished into the dim gloom of the corridor.

She shut the door quickly behind her and wasted no time in opening the letter.

Three simple words were written down on the paper.

 _The Alcove. Eleven._

Florence knew that hand anywhere. Opening the her door tentatively to check the coast was clear, she slipped out of her room, down the corridor and into the night.

* * *

Athos was sat, hunched over a map with only a flickering candle to see by. The night crept in through the small window, but the moon was dim that night and gave Athos little light to work by. He added a quick note to one side of the map, but the pen leaked and dark ink spread across the page, enveloping everything in blanket of thick blackness, surging forwards like a slowly cascading pool of blood from a fresh wound. Athos lashed out and screwed the map up, tossing it on the fire in a fit of rage. He got up and poured himself another drink, downing it in one. His head was spinning. Shapes in the room began to convulse into inhuman objects and Athos needed to hold himself up on the wooden table in order to stay upright. Darkness had started to gather at the edges of his eyes and he had begun to fall when he felt strong hands on his arm, pulling him up.

"Easy there, Athos!" he heard D'Artagnan's voice from behind him. "I think you've had one too many, and it won't be there first time!"

Athos tried to mumble something incoherent and struggle to be free, but D'Artagnan had a firm grasp on his arm.

"Let's get you upstairs."

Porthos heard the D'Artagnan's forceful but soothing voice and Athos' mumbled protests fade as they made their way upstairs. He was suddenly left alone. His eyes caught a glimpse of something in the dying embers of the fireplace. He gently lifted it up out of the weak flames and dropped it on the floor. Kneeling down, he smoothed the smouldering paper out. Despite it being tossed in the fire, it hadn't burnt much, and Porthos could just about make out the vague shape on the map and notes scrawled around it. He knew these notes well enough. Porthos sat back on his heels, and his face dropped. His eyes stared despairingly ahead as realisation spread through him like a sinking anchor.

Athos was planning to attack Spain.


End file.
